Nursery Rhymes
by Ciya
Summary: Collectors are maybe a bit insane at times but they aren't evil. Right? Yeah, anyways, this is an expansion of a 300 word drabble I wrote for Supernatural -dot- tv's drabble contest.
1. Chapter 1

**Nursery Rhymes**

"_One, two - Buckle my shoe_." His brother whispers in a child-like singsong voice. He resists the urge to look back, knowing the vacant look in his brother's eyes as he sits rigidly on an old wooden stool would only twist the pain of failure deeper into his gut.

"_Three, four - Knock at the door_." Damn collectors. Damn the collectors of infamous child serial killer memorabilia who get themselves possessed by said dead killer. Who then hide their cursed possession in the basement, where the oft repeated rumours and stories grow into urban legends. Legends that attract thrill seekers and hunters of the occult who themselves become possessed. Where in the hell is it? He attacks the 100-year-old mud and rock wall with frightening intensity.

"_Five, six - Pick up sticks_." He has until the nursery rhyme is finished. If he hasn't destroyed the cursed object by then his brother will proceed to assault and kill any child he can get his hands on until he is physically and permanently stopped - either by incarceration or, as in three cases, a hail of bullets.

"_Seven, eight - Lay them straight_." Sweat rolls down his face. The crow bar slips, his knuckles smash painfully into a sharp edged granite rock leaving behind smears of blood. This is impossible. How did his brother become possessed within minutes of entering the basement if the cursed object is buried inside a freaking wall?

"_Nine, ten - A good, fat hen_." They thought they had the mystery figured out yet, as the evidence shows, he glances over at his brother still sitting rigidly on the stool, they're screwed. A pale face with red tinged eyes turns towards him, a shaky voice pleads, "help me bro."

"_Eleven, twelve - Dig and delve_." His mouth falls open - what. in. the. hell? He did **not** just imagine that! Think! Within five minutes of entering the basement your brother is vacant eyed and whispering. What could've happened in the three minutes before you arrived? What did he touch? See? Hear? "What in the hell did you DO?" he yells in frustration.

"_Thirteen, fourteen - Maids a-courting_." He spins around in a circle taking in the broken wooden crates along the far wall, the lawn chair with a rotted canvas seat shoved against the near wall, the empty beer cans and broken liquor bottles scattered throughout the room, the burnt candles in various colors - black being the most prevalent - placed on practically every flat surface and years worth of accumulated trash. His eyes flick over the spray painted markings on the walls, floor and ceiling joists - noting that, at best, they would've called forth a slobbering, food obsessed, pudgy jackalope. And at worst, kicking at a pile of ashes, a really ticked off hell nymph.

"_Fifteen, sixteen - Maids a-kissing_." Worry clouds his face as his mind races, his fingers pulling at his hair. It's not in the wall - it can't be. It has to be something innocuous; his brother isn't stupid, it would have to be something a seasoned hunter wouldn't think twice about moving or standing on or…

"_Seventeen, eighteen - Maids a-waiting_." Fire lit his eyes - the old wooden stool! Why didn't he think of it before? He doesn't remember a stool being mentioned in any of the police reports, witness statements or even shown in crime scene photographs. Who would've suspected that a simple, rough hewn antique stool harbored an unimaginable evil? It took two tries and a badly bruised shoulder to knock his brother's super-glued butt off the stool. Seconds turned to hours as he poured salt and accelerant over the wood; all the while his brother is punching and kicking him in the back, screaming obscenities in an accented voice that isn't his own as he tries to scramble back onto the stool.

"_Nineteen, twenty_…" One flick of the lighter and flames roared, devouring the old, dry wood. An unearthly wind sweeps through the room, whipping dust and light debris into the air as it swirls violently around before dispersing with a hair-raising scream. He kneels down next to his unconscious brother, his gun in his hand, waiting to see if his brother comes back to him or is lost forever.

"Sammy?"

"Dean?"

_**-FIN-**_


	2. Chapter 2

_This is the original 300 word drabble I wrote for the challenge._

**One, Two, Three and Four**

"_One, two - Buckle my shoe_." His brother whispers in a child-like sing-song voice. He resists the urge to look back, knowing the vacant look in his brother's eyes as he sat on an old wooden stool would twist the pain of failure in his gut.

"_Three, four - Knock at the door_." Damn collectors. Damn collectors of infamous child serial killers who get themselves possessed by said killer. Who hide their cursed possession in the basement, where it attracts thrill seekers and hunters of the occult who themselves become killers. Where in the hell is it? He attacks the 100 year old mud and rock wall with intensity.

"_Five, six - Pick up sticks_." He has until the nursery rhyme is finished. If he hasn't destroyed the cursed object by then his brother will proceed to assault and kill any child he can get his hands on until he is stopped by incarceration…or bullets.

"_Seven, eight - Lay them straight_." The crow bar slips, his knuckles smash painfully into a sharp edged granite rock. This is impossible. How did his brother become possessed within minutes of entering the basement if the object is buried inside a wall?

"_Nine, ten - A good, fat hen_." They thought they'd had the mystery figured out yet evidence shows, glancing over at his brother still sitting rigidly on the stool, they were screwed. A pale face with red tinged eyes turns towards him, "Help me bro," a shaky voice pleads.

"_Eleven, twelve - Dig and delve_." His mouth fell open - what in the hell just happened? Think! Your brother entered the basement a full minute before you did and within five minutes he was vacant eyed and whispering.

"_Thirteen, fourteen - Maids a-courting_." Fire lit his eyes - the old wooden stool!

_**-FIN-**_


End file.
